over for a short time, but have not decided when; yet it will be soon
perhaps--it may. If it were not for my precious Arabel, I would not go;
because Robert's family would come to him here, they say. But to give up
Arabel is impossible. Henrietta is in Somersetshire; it is uncertain
whether I shall see her, even in going, and she too might come to Paris
this winter. And you will come--you promised, I think?...

I feel here _near enough_ to England, that's the truth. I recoil from
the bitterness of being nearer. Still, it must be thought of.

Dearest cousin, dearest friend, in all this pleasant journey we have
borne you in mind, and gratefully! You must feel _that_ without being
told. I won't quite do like my Wiedeman, who every time he fires his gun
(if it's twenty times in five minutes) says, 'Papa, papa,' because
Robert gave him the gun, and the gratitude is as re-iterantly and loudly
explosive. But one's thoughts may say what they please and as often as
they please.

Arabel tells me that you are kind to the manner of my poem, though to
the matter obdurate. Miss Mitford, too, says that it won't receive the
sympathy proper to a home subject, because the English people don't care
anything for the Italians now; despising them for their want of
originality in _Art_! That's very good of the English people, really! I
fear much that dear Miss Mitford has suffered seriously from the effects
of the damp house last winter. What she says of herself makes me anxious
about her.

Give my true love to dear Miss Bayley, and say how I repent in ashes for
not having written to her. But she is large-hearted and will forgive me,
and I shall make amends and send her sheet upon sheet. Barry Cornwall's